


Where'd You Go

by griners



Category: gerlonso - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-26
Updated: 2013-06-26
Packaged: 2017-12-16 07:13:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/griners/pseuds/griners
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a perfect world, Xabi would have said, "We could say I love you, tell the truth for once." Xabi says "Nothing."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where'd You Go

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so this is the first work I'm posting here, and when I figure out the whole AO3 deal I'll make a proper dedication to bella who gave me the wonderful suggestion to make an account. Enjoy your reading ;)

He’s wearing Spain’s colors on his chest. He should not be thinking about what they stand for, because he knows this already- loyalty, forever, talent, perseverance, Spain. And still, he sees red- it reminds him of a long ago red, and he feels his stomach clench a little at that.

He gets a call.

Picks it up immediately, even though he’s on the bus that’s taking them to the stadium and everything is quiet and focused and nervous and fidgety. He takes the call.

Arbeloa’s on the seat in front of him and he turns to Iker, mouths something Xabi can’t quite make up to which Iker shrugs, mutters what looks like a ‘dunno’, and goes back to looking out the window.

His tone is as low as it can get and the last words he murmurs are, thank you, and he hangs up. Arbeloa twists in his seat to look at him with a furrowed brow, and Xabi sighs, purses his lips, says (regretfully, guiltily) “Steven,”, and the man ahead of him smiles and turns away. Xabi’s head thumps against his seat and he closes his eyes, taking in a deep breath. 

Good luck.

.

Steven gets a text before their game with Chelsea. They don’t call each other anymore because hearing the other’s voice hurts more than they’re willing to admit and so, they decide, it’s better this way.

Xabi’s text says, Good luck, I’ll be watching, and Steven spends the whole game with the weight of thousands of looks (and one in particular) on him.  
They win.

.

'Guess the rumors are the other way around now'

(‘Liverpool want their midfielder back’ booms the TV on the background. ‘Alonso back to Anfield?’ screams the header on today’s newspaper)

'I wish there weren’t rumors', Xabi replies, drums his fingers on his knee in hope for a quick buzz on his phone, but it comes ten minutes later, and Xabi sees a text flash across his mind- one he’s not sure he wants or needs or will avoid. (I wish they were true)

Instead, it’s, ‘bloody annoying, aren’t they’.

Xabi smiles.  
.

‘You were great’

‘You’ll be fine’

‘You’ll make it’

‘Score one (for me)’

‘Good luck’

‘Good luck’

‘Good luck’

‘Good luck’

‘Don’t beat yourself up. You were the best player out there’

(You hear me? Best fucking player)

(I hear you)

Xabi wants to text, I love you, has mostly decided on doing it, but on the last moment he keeps the ‘you’ and replaces the ‘I love’ with ‘I believe in’ and Steven doesn’t reply, and a cold gripping fear settles on Xabi’s throat- like maybe Steven knew what he’d meant to type in the first place.

.

‘Good luck’

‘That’s all we ever say these days’

Steven stares at the phone, swallows around the knot growing bigger, replies, ‘What else can we say?’

In a perfect world, Xabi would have said, ‘We could say I love you. Tell the truth for once’

But. This isn’t a perfect world.

Xabi says ‘Nothing.’

.

Steven calls him again. Except, it’s completely different now- Xabi’s calmer, at home, Steven’s drunker, in a bar. Xabi’s in Spain, Steven’s in England.

His phone buzzes five times. Xabi wills the noise to go away. Answers it eventually.

“Steven?” and the tiredness in his voice seeps through in a way Steven easily picks up on.

“Come back,” his words are slurred, and Xabi can hear the faint fragments of music and someone yelling Steven’s name (he doesn’t seem to notice). “I just- come back, it’s not funny anymore, ok, what’s your fucking problem, come ba-“

“You’re drunk,” Xabi says sharply, and he’s angry now, because he has no right, absolutely no right- “Go home.”

“Is it money?” and he’s speaking louder than he normally would. “Because jesus, if the club hasn’t got the cash, I’ll fucking buy ye mate, I will, money’s made to get spent anyway so-“

“Stop.” Xabi tightens his hand around the phone. “Stop. Go home. You’re gonna regret this in the morning.”

“Oh. Oh, I get it. It’s kind of like a punishment of yours. I don’t tell you I love you and you decide to go off to God knows where and ignore me until the day you die and leave the only fucking club where you felt like home.” A pause. “Am I right?”

No. No, he’s not right, but Steven doesn’t need to hear that right now. Xabi doesn’t get to say it, either, because then it sounds like Steven’s phone is knocked out of his hand and he can hear a ‘What the fuck?’ and then someone saying ‘sorry’, and the call’s disconnected.

.

‘I’m sorry for last night’

They don’t have a game coming up. Xabi should have known this text would be an apology.

‘It’s alright’

In another time, another place, another moment, Xabi would have liked to get a different reply than the one he did, something like ‘You can only tell the truth when you’re drunk’ or, ‘I did mean what I said’. But the time’s October 15th, 2012, and he’s in Spain, Stevie’s in England, he’s about to break down, and guesses Steven is shaking his head at himself.

‘Thanks. Sorry again’

Xabi doesn’t say anything else.

.

This is what they’ve come to. 

Messages that don’t mean what’s written on them.

Words that shouldn’t be in texts.

Calls that shouldn’t be made.

Two hearts that shouldn’t be broken.

Or, instead, two pieces of the same heart. One’s in Spain. The other remains in England.


End file.
